by Daisy Clar Rosenstock
The next evening, I wake,
still in mourning under that
afternoon’s thumb. “We are
strange creatures,” you said,
“like Robert Grenier’s CICADA.”
A whine in the late summer,
blue and bright. A hollow skin
crushed underfoot, here yet
very much there. Spring springs
underneath the down comforter—
the hyacinths trying to grow
out of a right temple. Everyone,
your attention please:
thank you so much for coming but
my funeral was actually yesterday.
Daisy Clar Rosenstock is an MFA candidate at Boise State University. When not writing sad poems, Daisy can be found daydreaming about abandoned houses or chatting with the local dying pine tree.